I read an Associated Press article the other day about aging. Apparently, it’s big news that twenty-somethings are now going to great lengths to maintain their youth. That’s right – twenty-somethings. Forget that time hasn’t had a chance to inflict its first crow’s foot, let alone “liver spot” on these children. Twenty-somethings are taking the pre-emptive strike in the war against Father Time via anti-aging creams, Botox, skin peels, sunscreen and “dermabrasion,” whatever that is (probably the same things as a skin peel, if my long ago Latin lessons still mean anything).
The article also stated that “50 is the new 30.” Apparently some “super-model” (Cheryl Tiegs or some other blonde who was considered way hot back when I was in college) is using this catch-phrase to sell makeup. Having recently turned 50 myself, I’m not so sure.
But if the statement is true, it means that when I was chronologically 30, I was actually 10. I was married to Wife Number One at the time, and I’m almost sure she would concur that I was, in fact, 10 years old – from the neck up.
Now, 20 years later, the Lovely Mrs. Taylor (aka #4) would happily attest that I am MUCH more mature now than I was then. I believe she would guess my emotional age at something between 13 and 15, though, if I am to be honest, I must admit her guess would probably gravitate toward the lower number.
At any rate, it boggles my mind that kids in their 20s are worried about looking old. When I was young, my biggest concern was whether my fake I.D. would get me past the bouncer of some sleazy Westside bar on a Saturday night. If I could have magically manufactured a few wrinkles, I certainly would have.
I spent most every summer day at the beach, sucking back as many UV, UVA, UVB, USA and MPA (okay, I’m making ‘em up now) rays as I could, future skin cancer problems be damned. In winter, I was on the ski slopes, dry, frigid breezes whipping over my wind-chapped face. I was YOUNG, and I was going to enjoy it while I could! I’m wrinklier now because of those days of youthful indiscretion, but I can honestly say it was worth it.
These days I figure anyone who doesn’t like my wrinkly face doesn’t have to look at it. I could add additional comments about the youth-obsessed feeling free to kiss my this or bite my that, but this is a family newspaper, so I won’t.
Don’t get me wrong; I don’t harbor any animosity toward twenty-somethings preoccupied with maintaining their youth. I feel a little sorry for them, maybe, but that’s about it.
I mean, your 20s, even your early 30s, are the years you’re supposed to act foolishly, take chances, make mistakes. If you have to pay for it later on, so what? Better to die owing than with the balance sheet all squared away, if you take my meaning. (Which maybe you don’t, since I’m not sure EXACTLY what I mean myself.)
The point is – and I’m sure there’s one in here somewhere – youth ISN’T wasted on the young, except maybe those “young” so worried about their wrinkly future that they fail to enjoy their wrinkle-free present.
Sure, we’re living in a youth-obsessed culture. There’s no other way to explain Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake. (Or whoever is popular with 13-year-old girls this week. Don’t know, don’t care.) But where will it all end?
When do they start marketing anti-wrinkle cream to grade-school kids? Or … is it too late by the time you hit first grade? Better to start moisturizing in pre-school. Or better yet, how about exfoliants added to diaper rash cream? Never too soon to start worrying about cellulite on the tush, right?
Brother.
For my part, I intend to continue spending whole sunny summer days fishing shirtless on my boat (regardless of complaints and/or disparaging comments from other fishermen). I intend to let my hair turn gray whenever it’s ready to (any day now, I’m sure). I intend to get fat (-ter) if that’s what the Good Lord has in store for me. And I will, to the best of my ability, not give a damn about any of it.
I will be just as happy to be old today as I was to be young 30 years ago. If 50 is the new 30 for Cheryl Tiegs, well, goody. For me, 50 is the new 50.
And for crying out loud, if you ARE twenty-something, just enjoy it and let tomorrow take care of itself.
The article also stated that “50 is the new 30.” Apparently some “super-model” (Cheryl Tiegs or some other blonde who was considered way hot back when I was in college) is using this catch-phrase to sell makeup. Having recently turned 50 myself, I’m not so sure.
But if the statement is true, it means that when I was chronologically 30, I was actually 10. I was married to Wife Number One at the time, and I’m almost sure she would concur that I was, in fact, 10 years old – from the neck up.
Now, 20 years later, the Lovely Mrs. Taylor (aka #4) would happily attest that I am MUCH more mature now than I was then. I believe she would guess my emotional age at something between 13 and 15, though, if I am to be honest, I must admit her guess would probably gravitate toward the lower number.
At any rate, it boggles my mind that kids in their 20s are worried about looking old. When I was young, my biggest concern was whether my fake I.D. would get me past the bouncer of some sleazy Westside bar on a Saturday night. If I could have magically manufactured a few wrinkles, I certainly would have.
I spent most every summer day at the beach, sucking back as many UV, UVA, UVB, USA and MPA (okay, I’m making ‘em up now) rays as I could, future skin cancer problems be damned. In winter, I was on the ski slopes, dry, frigid breezes whipping over my wind-chapped face. I was YOUNG, and I was going to enjoy it while I could! I’m wrinklier now because of those days of youthful indiscretion, but I can honestly say it was worth it.
These days I figure anyone who doesn’t like my wrinkly face doesn’t have to look at it. I could add additional comments about the youth-obsessed feeling free to kiss my this or bite my that, but this is a family newspaper, so I won’t.
Don’t get me wrong; I don’t harbor any animosity toward twenty-somethings preoccupied with maintaining their youth. I feel a little sorry for them, maybe, but that’s about it.
I mean, your 20s, even your early 30s, are the years you’re supposed to act foolishly, take chances, make mistakes. If you have to pay for it later on, so what? Better to die owing than with the balance sheet all squared away, if you take my meaning. (Which maybe you don’t, since I’m not sure EXACTLY what I mean myself.)
The point is – and I’m sure there’s one in here somewhere – youth ISN’T wasted on the young, except maybe those “young” so worried about their wrinkly future that they fail to enjoy their wrinkle-free present.
Sure, we’re living in a youth-obsessed culture. There’s no other way to explain Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake. (Or whoever is popular with 13-year-old girls this week. Don’t know, don’t care.) But where will it all end?
When do they start marketing anti-wrinkle cream to grade-school kids? Or … is it too late by the time you hit first grade? Better to start moisturizing in pre-school. Or better yet, how about exfoliants added to diaper rash cream? Never too soon to start worrying about cellulite on the tush, right?
Brother.
For my part, I intend to continue spending whole sunny summer days fishing shirtless on my boat (regardless of complaints and/or disparaging comments from other fishermen). I intend to let my hair turn gray whenever it’s ready to (any day now, I’m sure). I intend to get fat (-ter) if that’s what the Good Lord has in store for me. And I will, to the best of my ability, not give a damn about any of it.
I will be just as happy to be old today as I was to be young 30 years ago. If 50 is the new 30 for Cheryl Tiegs, well, goody. For me, 50 is the new 50.
And for crying out loud, if you ARE twenty-something, just enjoy it and let tomorrow take care of itself.
1 comment:
I am so thrilled that you're here!!! I will be back, every day, so you best be updating frequently!
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